


Saint Judas

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 14k in five days hell yeah, Gen, not really a casefic until chapter 2, shitty casefics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock should, but does not, grieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stage One: Denial (Don't Cry)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the poem of the same title, written by James Wright.

  
Sherlock stares over the vast, empty gap of Mycroft's front lawn and says, “It wasn’t a suicide.”  
  
  
John breathes out with something like relief, although he’s not really sure why. Thankful that seven-hour investigation of Mycroft's ridiculous mansion had been worth it, maybe. John settles for that even though he knows it's wrong. He opens his mouth.  
  
  
“Really, now?” asks Donovan, peeling off rubber gloves and giving Sherlock a challenging stare. “Did you deduce it from his dishcloth, now?"  
  
  
"Hardly," replies Sherlock with a curiously straight face. "The only thing you can deduce from a dishcloth is if the owner is a liar."  
  
  
“If you found something, we need to know what it is,” Lestrade interrupts Donovan.  
  
  
“So your assembled team of London’s finest imbeciles can pretend to deserve their paychecks?”  
  
  
Lestrade gives a little sigh, but Donovan’s shoulders square themselves, and she lifts her chin. “You shouldn’t even be on this investigation,” she says. “Actually, you shouldn’t be on any investigations, you know. But especially now; I mean, shouldn’t you be off—” she gives a little hand wave, “— _grieving_ or something?”  
  
  
Sherlock’s lip curls in disgust. “Yes, I’ll just break down and cry,” he drawls, “and my sparkling princess tears will bring Big Brother back.” A vicious, mocking smile. “Happily ever after; wouldn’t that be nice?”  
  
  
“Sherlock, if there’s anything you’ve found,” Lestrade says again.  
  
  
“It’s all pointless in the end, isn’t it?” says Sherlock icily. “You’re not even—”  
  
  
“What about the poem you found?” John interrupts, before Sherlock goes where he might regret. “What’s that?”  
  
  
And Sherlock rattles off: “Paper purchased in Sussex approximately twelve years ago, printed by Mycroft himself in his home office, fresh cartridge of ink purchased in India; Sussex being where the family vacation house is, India being Mycroft’s favorite country for unfathomable reasons as the water alone can kill. 'Saint Judas,' written by James Wright. Useless unless there’s a message written on it in invisible ink, which is far too plebian of Mycroft, and too much effort for the lazy git. Send it to forensics for the invisible ink, but get rid of it otherwise.”  
  
  
“It’s not a message?” John asks.  
  
  
“In poetry?” Sherlock puffs out a mocking breath of air. “Mawkish.”  
  
  
Lestrade hesitates—barely, but he does. “Right,” he says. “Sherlock, you want to take another look at it before we bag it? Just in case the poem does turn out to be impor—”  
  
  
“No,” says Sherlock, and turns and walks away.  
  
  
“His own _brother_ ,” says Donovan, in much the same way as she’d said _grieving_. She gives a breathless laugh, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, and John hurries after Sherlock before he’s tempted to say something he’ll regret.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
If there's one thing that John has learned today, it is that John absolutely did not know Mycroft Holmes. And, very likely, neither did Sherlock.  
  
  
Mycroft's house, for example: it both is and is not what John had expected. He’d imagined overly large halls and red carpets and expensive artwork hung for the sake of appearances, and Mycroft had more than delivered: the dining room (table for fifty), the hallways (why would anyone need a chandelier in a hallway), the sitting room (overlooking a private golf course), and the honest-to-God _ballroom_ (for _Christ’s sake_ ). It reeked of wealth and power and some bizarre Victorian fetish, but then again, the Holmes brothers had always loved the melodramatic.  
  
  
But the bedroom that Mycroft’s body was found in—well. It was like death itself.  
  
  
Colours drained; the red wallpapers faded to nothing, and orange lamps bleached into white. The almost tangible poshness in the air dried to a sterility that stung John’s throat. Furniture disappeared altogether, until there was only a lone bed shoved in the corner. That was where the most powerful man John had ever met closed his eyes, at his most vulnerable, and shut down every night: in a windowless, frozen box.  
  
  
As much as John wishes he could see some other reality, there’s nothing to see in the bare room except the stretch of Mycroft’s dead limbs sprawled all over the floor and the empty bottle of pills in his hand.  
  
  
Speaking of: The pills in Mycroft’s hand had been prescribed for depression.  
  
  
“It wasn’t a suicide,” says Sherlock, a touch irritably.  
  
  
John turns away from the cab window. Sherlock watches him in the reflection of his own window, but doesn’t turn. “I suppose Anderson always is wrong,” John says.  
  
  
John waits a second, two, five, ten, thirty before he realizes that Sherlock’s usual string of deductions isn’t coming. “Sherlock?” he asks, tentative. “Is there—”  
  
  
“It wasn’t a suicide,” he repeats.  
  
  
John bites his lip. Sherlock hates repeating himself every other day of the year, and now he’s turned into a sodding broken record. They had sniffer dogs in the military for mine fields like this. “Right. Right, you’ve said that.” He glances at the cabbie, if only for somewhere else to look. “Anything to, er, back that up?”  
  
  
Sherlock seems to contemplate John's reflection, then says, "On the floor, in his house, for the maid to find? Without some sort of government cover-up?"

  
"The way he died is wrong?"

  
"That, and the fat git is too lazy to kill himself."

  
John mulls this over for a moment. (Sherlock has never, despite what the Yard would believe, insulted the dead before. Only stated facts.) "Not your usual brand of deduction."

  
"It's not right and I'm pointing it out; I'm not sure what else you were expecting."

  
"Isn't there something wrong with the cups in his dining room, or his window latches, or even the dishclo—"  
  
  
“It's just not a suicide.”  
  
  
The ensuing silence is tangible.  
  
  
"Sherlock—"  
  
  
"It's not right. And Anderson is always wrong."

 

John hesitates for a moment. Aligns the emotional cues he's been given. As gently as he can, he says, "But the crime scene, Sherlock. What did you see at the crime scene?"  
  
  
"One person of Mycroft's height and weight walked into the room, judging by the markings on the outside carpet," Sherlock recites, "and stood in the middle of the room until an abrupt collapse. There's no indication that he moved thereafter."  
  
  
"Okay," says John. "Is there any possibility at all that something else could have happened besides Mycroft, er…"  
  
  
The lips of Sherlock's reflection twist unpleasantly.  
  
  
"…No?"  
  
  
"It's not like Mycroft, John."  
  
  
"But if the evidence—"  
  
  
"Unimporta—"  
  
  
"—points to a certain deduction, Sherlock, you can't just ignore that. You're not allowed to just say it's unimportant just because it's not what you expected from Mycroft."  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
"It's not like anybody expects this sort of thing, either, you know," John tries again, more gently this time.  
  
  
Silence. Sherlock's lips twist unpleasantly.  
  
  
"…Look," says John. "I don't know what was up with you and your brother, but it is okay to grieve. Especially with how he died. And the, the terms you left off on.

 

Silence.

 

"I'm sorry," he says, even though he knows Sherlock hates that.  
  
  
Naturally, the twist deepens until Sherlock is scowling in earnest. "It's not a suicide."  
  
  
"Sher—"  
  
  
"Mycroft wouldn't have."  
  
  
"Mycroft was human t—"  
  
  
"It's not a suicide, John."  
  
  
"221B Baker Street," announces the cabbie. Sherlock throws the cab door open and sweeps out onto the street, leaving John to deal with the (ridiculous) fare, so John hands the cabbie Sherlock's debit card, because it's Sherlock's fault they had to take a cab all the way out of London. He trudges out onto the street just in time to see 221B's door shut with resounding firmness, and makes a mental note to check the flat for drugs. Possible danger night, as, well, Mycroft would say. He glances up at the CCTV camera on the building corner, and the camera stares back. The CCTV cameras had always had a habit of following John when he walked down the street, and he'd walk on, looking nowhere but forward, which sometimes made him so tense his shoulder would cramp. Now, it's he who watches the camera as he walks to the door, and the camera that stares straight ahead.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
Actually, John has no idea if it's a danger night or not. (Neither did Mycroft. Ever.) Because to be honest, the investigation of Mycroft's bedroom had been the blandest investigation John had ever seen.  
  
Sherlock had pulled on a pair of gloves. Walked through Mycroft's hallways with unsettling familiarity, and entered Mycroft's bedroom with all his usual shamelessness. Done a visual sweep of the scene as he always did before settling his exacting stare on Mycroft's corpse, and said, in a voice so even John could have used it as a straight-edge: "Never managed to keep that diet, I see."  
  
  
John had opened his mouth, then closed it. Glanced at Lestrade, who had stared with weary grimness at Sherlock perched over his brother’s body. “Sherlock,” Lestrade had said at length. It sounded like somebody had had to peel the syllables off his tongue. “You sure you should be investigating this?”  
  
“Of course." The magnifying lens in his hand had flicked open with a pointed snick, and Sherlock had leaned over to examine Mycroft’s eyebrows. “I can hardly trust Anderson to investigate so much as a cat up a tree," Sherlock had said, and Mycroft’s eyelashes had fluttered with Sherlock’s breath.  
  
  
With a professionalism that John had never seen from Sherlock, he'd examined every inch of his brother's blank face. (The open, dull gaze of the British government never blinked back.) Sherlock had moved on, then, from the face to the torso, and from the torso to the arms, and the waist, and the legs. There had been a silence as Sherlock worked, poking and prodding fingers and skin and clothes. Sherlock’s coat had grazed the floor, scratching loud against the quiet. Then Sherlock had paused, and pried something white from Mycroft’s coat pocket. John had straightened. “Is that a—”  John had said, but stopped at the word _note_. He'd shared a grimace with Lestrade, even as Sherlock unfolded the paper.  
  
  
They'd been quiet for a half-second, and then Sherlock’s face had wrinkled. “Ugh,” he'd said, somehow eloquently, and tossed it at John to go back to—whatever he'd been searching for. Not very discreetly, Lestrade had peered over John’s shoulder as he'd smoothed out the creases.  
  
  
“Oh,” John had said, and sighed. A title, two stanzas, vague language—no wonder Sherlock hadn't wanted it. Lestrade had given him an eyebrow, and John had only said, “Sherlock isn’t a literature person,” before he'd turned back to read.  
  
  
 _Saint Judas_ , by James Wright, the title, had said, and the poem had begun: _When I went out to kill myself—_  
  
  
 _I swear_ , John thinks, _if Anderson chooses now of all times to be right._  
  


 

* * *

  
  
In the pursuit of proving that Anderson is, indeed, never right, Sherlock willingly spends time in the Yard's labs to examine every shred of evidence for three days. Lestrade is pleased that Sherlock isn't pickpocketing evidence to experiment on in private and John is pleased that their kitchen is more kitchen than lab for all of two hours, after which one of the assistants bursts out of the lab in tears, sobbing about psychopaths and curtains. While John consoles the poor girl, Lestrade tries to lecture Sherlock about terrorizing Yarders, but Sherlock only stares at a petri dish through his microscope. Lestrade, wisely, retreats.  
  
  
"He always has something to say," Lestrade tells John over their fourth cups of coffee. He shakes his head, somehow managing to appear even more worn out than usual. "Sometimes witty, always cutting, and it's _never_ polite, but he always has something to say when I try to get him back in line."  
  
  
John shrugs, coffee in one hand and texting Harry with his other. "He loves the last word. Has to have it on everything."  
  
  
"Then somebody needs to explain to me what the bloody hell is wrong with him," says Lestrade.  
  
  
Maybe what's wrong, John thinks, is that he never did get the last word before Mycroft died. Their sibling rivalry had defined their relationship, and now that Mycroft had taken himself out of the competition, their race would always be without a finish line. Sherlock could be the smartest man on earth, solve every crime and track down every serial murderer and bring entire organizations down, and all his efforts would evaporate into the atmosphere without his supposed rival to bounce back and one-up him. The dead are deaf and blind, and nothing will come of nothing.  
  
  
John's kidding himself, really. In truth, John has no idea what goes on in Sherlock's head.  
  
  
"Speaking of last words," says Lestrade, "can you _actually_ tell if someone's a liar from their dishcloth?"  
  
  
"Er, no," says John. "That was a…" He takes a deep breath. "Well, it was a joke. People tended to alternate between thinking Sherlock was barmy and completely omniscient when he was a boy, and the idea that you could tell if someone was a liar from their dishcloth was… I guess, it was something of an in-joke between him and Mycroft."  
  
  
An uncomfortable silence falls.  
  
  
On the fourth day, the Yard closes the case. Suicide by overdose.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
John comes back from the clinic on the fifth day to find broken glass littered all over the sidewalk in front of 221B and Sherlock leaning out of the empty holes where the windows had been. "Jesus Christ," breathes John, then shouts, “Sherlock!”  
  
  
Sherlock doesn’t move. His hands are clenched over the edges, where no doubt the window’s broken shards remain; his gaze is fixed somewhere off to his right, glaring with a savageness that could only be personal, except there’s nothing there. John grits his teeth. Behind him, people peer through Speedy’s windows at the crazy man in the broken windows, pedestrians stare at John as they walk by, and every fibre of John’s being is ranting _keep your business yours_. So John walks through the door as calmly as he can, up the stairs, across the flat, and pulls Sherlock away from the window.  
  
  
Sherlock shakes him off as soon as John touches him. For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to hiss _Don’t touch me_ or something similarly teenage-appropriate, but all he does is scowl, flounce back to the window, and say, “You’re back early.” He doesn't even look at John.  
  
  
“Last patient cancelled,” says John shortly. “Is there a reason why our windows are now a pedestrian hazard on the sidewalk?”

  
“I’ll clean it later.”  
  
  
“No, you’ll make me clean it later. What the bloody hell are you doing?”  
  
  
Sherlock doesn’t even turn. “CCTV cameras. He’s watching.”  
  
  
John stares at Sherlock, and then leans out the window to see the CCTV camera attached to the building—the same one that didn’t turn the night they’d found the body. The camera is very firmly fixed on the middle of the street. “Sherlock,” he says, but doesn’t know what else to say. No, your brother isn’t watching because he’s dead? Because he wanted to die? Blood drips from Sherlock's fingers. John rallies himself. “Sherlock,” he says again, “how are we going to replace these windows?”  
  
  
“Mycroft will,” replies Sherlock.  
  
  
John presses his lips together. “Okay, but until then, can you just… get down from there?”  
  
  
“No.”  
  
  
John racks his brain. "Your hands are bleeding all over the floor, you know. It's going to scar if it's not looked at."

 

Sherlock does not respond.

 

"I've got a first-aid kit in the kitchen; could probably fix you up without a hospital. D'you want me to look at that?"  
  
  
Sherlock does not respond.  
  
  
John watches him a moment, then walks across the flat to the kitchen, gets the first-aid kid out from under the sink, and walks back to the broken windows. He reaches for Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock moves away.  
  
  
“Sherlock,” says John, a little pleadingly.  
  
  
Sherlock does not respond.  
  
  
“Sherlock,” says John, more firmly.  
  
  
Sherlock does not respond.  
  
  
“Sherlock,” says John, almost angrily.  
  
  
Sherlock does not respond.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sherlock does not respond for the next forty-eight hours.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Mycroft's funeral is a professional, perfunctory affair. People who look more like the secretaries of the people Mycroft knew line the aisles, and they glance covertly at Sherlock, whose eyes are fixed firmly down at his lap, a picture of grief until they see his thumbs tapping away at the screen of his phone. Some of them stand to say dry, tasteless words at the podium; one of them only says "Mrs Holmes, who is not present today, wishes her eldest the best of luck in the afterlife and gives her condolences to her remaining son." And then he sits back down. John is stunned: Sherlock had always spoke with faint fondness and respect for his mum (he still calls her "Mummy"; who does that at thirty-six?), and John had always imagined a woman who would return her son's affection with her own.  
  
  
It's at that point that Sherlock stands. People watch him in expectation, but he stares straight ahead. Walks to the podium. Faces the small audience in black. Holds up his phone. Presses a button.  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
Someone's phone pings.  
  
  
Someone else's phone pings.  
  
  
Half a second later, everyone's phones ping, including John's. In unified confusion, people try their discreet best to slide phones out of pockets and purses to check. John doesn't even bother hiding it. This isn't going to end well no matter what.  
  
  
 _Everyone's dishcloths are dirty. SH_  
  
  
Silence. Then:  
  
  
"Because of my shoes?" says a woman in disbelief, and then the man three rows from the back says, "Of all things—" and somebody else exclaims, "Repressed!" and somebody else says, "What do you mean, undiagnosed heart murmur?" and then the whole audience is simultaneously chattering and demanding answers. And like all crowds, though they're not really angry enough to shout, they can definitely work themselves up to be. "I've a wife and kids!" yells the man just behind John, and John winces.  
  
  
Sherlock pockets his phone and, without the trace of his usual smirk whenever he's angered someone with his brilliance, floats back to his seat. John's already on his feet, wanting to throttle the man, but then he sees Sherlock's face and realizes that now, pissing people off is the closest Sherlock can come to what life was before Mycroft's suicide, and all he can do at Mycroft's funeral. John sits down. The noise surges on, and it won't last; but for now, they sit together quietly.  
  
 __

* * *

  
  
If John had been a religious man, he would have prayed for a serial killer. Which, probably, is not the sort of thing one asks from God (and certainly not Lestrade). But John has something of an idea of Sherlock's brain, and that something of an idea is that it doesn't just rebel in stagnation, it _tears itself apart_. It needs a focus, a direction, a conductor, almost like machinery needs oil so it won't rust and rattle itself to dust. And if it isn't a case, then Sherlock's brain would naturally take to ruminating on Mycroft.  
  
  
John doesn't really expect Sherlock to make Mycroft the case.  
  
  
"Obviously, John," says Sherlock imperiously, pulling one end of the scarf through the loop. "There's something wrong, and as a consulting detective, I'm obligated to investigate it. Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
  
John looks back at his phone with Harry's latest text, then closes it. "Even you said there was nothing wrong with the crime scene."  
  
  
"No, I said it wasn't a suicide," replies Sherlock, and slides both arms into his coat.  
  
  
John very nearly scowls at that, but catches himself: it's only been a week since Sherlock's own brother died, and surely Sherlock can be allowed his denial for a little longer. (You wouldn't have such a problem with it, a voice in John's head says, if you didn't think he could keep denying for the rest of his life.) John takes a deep breath. Sherlock stops, eyebrow raised as he holds the door open. "Well, alright, then. Have fun," says John, and opens his phone to begin a reply text.  
  
  
Sherlock doesn't move. The door stands open. John pokes at the buttons, trying to figure out where the comma is hidden. After a long moment, Sherlock says, "Harry?" The inflection in the question goes up a little higher than Sherlock's usual.  
  
  
"Mhm," says John.  
  
  
By the time John's done painstakingly tapping out his two-sentence message, Sherlock's already gone. John collapses into his chair, digs a book out from underneath, and opens it with a determination to enjoy it that John has shot people with. Sherlock needs time. He'll come out of denial eventually. Maybe, then, John won't feel like he's talking to empty air.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Sherlock doesn't come out of denial because he doesn't come back.

  
On the ninth day, twenty-four hours into Sherlock's disappearance, John's not entirely sure what to do. Even though Sherlock sometimes disappears for days and never picks up his phone, he always replies to texts—has to have he last word, after all. And after almost thirty hours of texting silence, John begins to worry. Instead of sending countless texts into seeming oblivion, he ends up doing what every other middle-aged man does in moments of uncertainty: bury himself in work. Usually it's Mycroft who keeps an eye on Sherlock, John thinks as he goes through hospital paperwork with savage mechanicalness, or at the very least can locate him when he disappears for too long, but now, Mycroft—well. Now Mycroft is the reason why Sherlock's gone.

  
Not what John expected from Sherlock in the aftermath of a family member's death, but then again, he hadn't exactly had a fantastic point of reference to go on—that being Irene Adler, which was always shaky because John _still_ has no idea what Irene Adler had been to Sherlock. But if John had had to guess, he would have predicted that Sherlock would mourn his tense fraternal relationship with disappointment, irritation, and as much sorrow as Sherlock would allow himself to emote over a man he'd declared his arch-nemesis. Or maybe complete indifference: acceptance that everyone dies, including Mycroft Holmes. In no way had John expected blind, bullheaded denial.

  
The blind, bullheaded drive to prove that he's right, though—that isn't anything new.

  
Forty-eight hours into Sherlock's disappearance, the clinic closes early. John is stranded back at the flat. It's quiet, calm, and the space seems several times too large for just one man with a blog, so John alternates between making tea, making sure the plastic cover over the glassless windows are secured, watching the counter on his blog go up, refreshing _The Science of Deduction_ , debating whether to send more impotent texts to Sherlock, reminding himself that he was a grown man and Sherlock was a grown man and this was no time to send texts every thirty seconds like a teenaged girlfriend, and staring at Sherlock's empty chair. John goes to bed that night feeling more exhausted than sitting on a sofa should warrant.

  
In the end, another seventy-two hours pass before John calls Lestrade, because he doesn't know what else to do.

  
"John, if you can't do it, I sure as hell can't," is the first thing Lestrade says, "unless it involves arresting him."

  
"Or donating a few cold cases for him to chew on," replies John. "And hi, by the way."  
  


"Hey to you too. John, you know he prefers fresh cases, and cold cases are even more out of line than what I'm already doing by letting him on crime scenes."  
  


"Good thing I didn't actually ask, then."  
  


Lestrade sighs, and John pictures him rubbing a hand through his graying hair. "Yeah, alright, come down to the station, I'll see if I can find some bones for him to chew on. This should not be my division," John hears him mutter, just before he hangs up.  
  


One cab ride later, John's standing in the doorway of Lestrade's office. He can feel officers behind computers staring at his back; he wonders if they even recognize him without Sherlock. Lestrade, for his part, is throwing another file on a decent stack of apparently cold cases. "He didn't come with you?" he asks.  
  


"Um," says John, and suddenly feels very awkward.  
  


Lestrade frowns. "He's off terrorizing a Yarder."  
  
  
"Er, no. He's…" John gathers up the pile of cold cases and clears his throat. "Well, I dunno exactly where he is, actually."  
  


Lestrade looks like he's about to groan for half a second before there's a sharp rap on Lestrade's door and Donovan's voice says, "Probably high as a kite, knowing him."  
  
  
"You can put the memo on my desk, thanks," says Lestrade in a remarkably bland tone, sitting up a little higher in his chair.  
  
  
She does, then turns to face John. "And outside my office, if you're going to have a row," adds Lestrade, opening the new file.  
  


"Of course, sir," says Donovan, and exits with brisk professionalism that John, on some level, can very much appreciate. The door swings shut behind her.  
  


Lestrade eyes it for a moment, then closes the file again. "I can't help much, John. But keep trying, will you?" says Lestrade. His expression is suddenly serious, even though he's still slouched in his chair with an old coffee stain on his tie. "I've known him for years and I still feel like I know jack about him, but with the jack I know, I know you're good for him."  
  
John chews the inside of his cheek. "Feels like good for nothing, actually."  
  
"It would with him, wouldn't it?" Lestrade shrugs. "It might work, though, and that's the thing. 'S why a lot of people do the things they do. 'S why I'm putting a bloody missing persons report out for him—it's not _actually_ going to do anything, you know, but it _might_."  
  
"Missing persons be great, yeah," says John. "Thanks, really, for that and—" He nods at the stack of files.  
  
"Don't mention it. He doesn't have much of a taste for 'em and it's hardly legal, but nobody will notice if cold cases go missing for a few days and sometimes he sees something we didn't. Ask Sally for a few more; I think she's got some she wants to get rid of."  
  
John turns to leave, then pauses. "I hope you were joking about the row," replies John.  
  
"Only until it happens," replies Lestrade, and the file opens once more.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
"Why do you hate him so much, anyway?" asks John. "If you don't mind me asking."  
  
Donovan dumps another quartet of files into John's arms and gives him a pair of raised eyebrows. "I told you the first night, didn't I? He's a psychopath, and even if Lestrade doesn't agree, it's my duty to make sure he stays in line." She eyeballs him, not quite as piercing as Sherlock but still keen. "And you still stick around. I've no idea how you sleep at night."  
  
 _Well_ , John thinks, _sometimes I actually don't, and sometimes I sleep and I wake up screaming, but that's completely unrelated_. "He does have a tendency for Tchaikovsky past midnight," he replies instead.  
  
She laughs, but it's dry and humorless. "You're even madder than him, you know."  
  
"But he's not mad. Brilliant and stupid, but not mad."  
  
"Of course he's mad," says Donovan, like she's reciting lines for a play. "He has to be mad."  
  
"Or what?" John asks.  
  
She gives him a severe look. That, obviously, is not how she intended that sentence and they both know it. "Or things would have to change," she says slowly. "But it's been too long and there's been too much, and nobody ever wants to take that leap."  
  
"So the both of you just sit there and be pointlessly angry?"  
  


 

* * *

 

  
"Just leave me alone," Sherlock had snapped, the last time Mycroft had entered their flat. The last time they'd seen him alive.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
John puts the files on the desk by his computer and takes a deep breath. He sends a text to Sherlock, saying he has cold cases for Sherlock, if he wants them.  
  


The flat is still empty and silent and much too big.  
  


John wishes the hospital was open on Sundays.  
  


(Actually, John wishes Sherlock would reply to his goddamn texts, but it's easier to wish for work. No wonder Sherlock loves it so much.)  
  


 

* * *

 

  
And then, of course, twelve days after Mycroft's death, just as John is pulling on his jacket to get to his eight o'clock shift:  
  


"Lestrade?" John asks, cradling his phone on his shoulder.  
  


"There's been a possible murder," says Lestrade. Sirens are wailing in the background.  
  


"I'm not really going to be much good on a crime scene without Sherlock, if that's what you're getting at." John manages to get his foot in his shoe, and stamps on it a few times to get his sock comfortable.  
  


"That's the thing," says Lestrade. "Sherlock's _this_ close to unbearable without you, and he's already here."


	2. Stage Two: More Denial (Won't Cry)

He uses Sherlock's debit card for the cab ride there, not really feeling as guilty about it as he should. They pull up to a nice, clean street, a set of restaurants on one side and a block of flats on the other, and the whole area roped off. He sees Donovan questioning an employee in front of a shop, who looks rather disgruntled at the investigation interrupting his business; Donovan, for her part, is wearing an iron mask of determined patience. A police officer that John recognizes only by face waves for John, so he shuts the cab door and follows him into the building.

 

Sherlock's standing in the sitting room of a quaint little flat—inhabited with what appears to be, bizarrely, _doubles_  of everything, from the pictures on the walls to the rugs to the windows—and studying a barefoot woman in a stern black dress laid out over white tile, a gun in her right hand. Lestrade, who seems to have decided to give Sherlock space, throws John a grateful look as soon as he enters, but John makes for Sherlock so fast he almost bangs into the pair of shoe racks in the hallway and plants himself on the other side of the woman's corpse, right in front of Sherlock.  
  


There are new lines on his face, and for a brief moment John knows exactly what he'll look like when Sherlock's old and retired from his mad dashes around London, because the beginning's right here. The color in his face is washed out and his cheeks are taut over his bones, like somebody's reached under his skin and scraped everything healthy away. His hair was obviously brushed aside with a hand, disregarded as unimportant, and it shows in the stray, fraying hairs. There's a suspicious mud stain on the inside of his collar. The coat, heavy and thick as it is, hangs on Sherlock's shoulders with oppressiveness that John feels in his own gut, a mantle to bear.  
  


"Four days," says John.  
  


"Yes," replies Sherlock, absently. His voice is thinner than John remembered.  
  


"Sherlock, four days without a word—" John waves a hand, trying to catch Sherlock's line of sight. "Sherlock, listen to me—"  
  


"It wasn't a suicide," says Sherlock.  
  


And John feels a surge of inappropriate anger at that, because good lord Sherlock can be stubborn but this is getting ridiculous, and Sherlock's going to search for an answer to a puzzle that doesn't exist forever if he keeps going like this. "Jesus Christ," snaps John, "just—"  
  


"This woman," interrupts Sherlock smoothly, "did not commit suicide. There's powder burns on the right side of her head, and she's indeed right-handed, but firstly, the entry point is two inches further back on the head than is normal for a person holding a gun to their head, and secondly, she seems to have been standing when she was shot, which is unusual." He demonstrates, then points a hand towards the tile. There are scabs on the backs of his knuckles. "Abnormalities that could be disregarded, but there's fresh, crushed vegetation lingering in the tile corners; there's no dirt or vegetation on her feet, so somebody else must have been here, and recently."  
  


"Of course there's no dirt on her feet," says John resolutely. "Her shoes are missing."  
  


"She's Korean. Most Asian cultures ask people to take their shoes when they enter a room."  
  


John leans over to check the woman's slack face under her mussed black hair. How Sherlock can tell the difference between Japanese, Chinese, and Korean, John doesn't ask. "You can't say she took her shoes off just based on her ethnicity."  
  


"No, I say that based on the two shoe racks in the hallway—those weren't spare shoes or easy-access shoes, those were all her shoes, which she keeps there because she removes them when she enters the flat, but not by the door because she needs to colour-coordinate with her outfits. Love it when they're neat; it makes it so much easier to find abnormalities on a clean floor."  
  


It takes a moment for John to realize what's missing, but he sees it eventually: Whenever he's praised the deceased for being clever enough to make his job easier, Sherlock always smiles, whirling around the crime scene pointing out how oh she was _clever_ , look at how _clever_ she was in death, cleverer than all of _you_ lot. And now—John wishes he could say that Sherlock is so still that he at least has presence, but he doesn't. He's just not there.  
  


 "Until people decide to come waltzing all over it," Sherlock adds, and glares back at Lestrade. Lestrade rolls his eyes, arms crossed. It feels like a well-rehearsed, heartless play.  
  


"Furthermore," Sherlock continues, beginning to pace (his shoes scuff lightly on the floor, and John stares at them abruptly, because Sherlock always places his steps with precision), "most of the trace amounts of vegetation are in the hallway, meaning he walked there first, in a straight line; a person entered without taking off their shoes, walked in a straight line down the hallway, at which point most of the material wore off his shoes, but not all, because it's evident almost everywhere in this flat. Despite that, the woman's bare feet never picked up any of it, so she doesn't seem to have been walking by the time he was walking freely.  We know he visited the kitchen because of the woman's obsessive-compulsive disorder—"  
  


"What?"  
  


"Everything's in identical pairs, John!" says Sherlock, gesturing around the flat, almost wildly. One of his knees twist unsteadily; the whole world tilts with him until he precariously rights himself and John releases the breath he'd been holding. Lestrade is staring. "The chairs, the two tables stuck together, two salt shakers when usually it's salt and pepper, the double copies of her books, of course her shoes are safe because they come in pairs but she has two shoe racks, and yet there's only one dish cloth hanging."  
  


John crosses his arms. "So she's lying about her OCD?"  
  


Sherlock stops and looks at John. His lips curl tentatively. "No," he says, and jolts back into motion: "the intruder had to wipe his footprints off the floor, but he couldn't put the dishcloth back, so he had to take it with him."  
  


"Alright, Sherlock," says Lestrade. "So there was somebody here, somebody who probably shot her. But do you know where he is? Anything to help us find him?"  
  


"Approximately 6'3", but with his legs are shorter in comparison to his torso than the usual ratio," replies Sherlock. "About fourteen stone, although I'd wager that's more muscle than fat, from the firmness of his footsteps."  
  


"That's it?" says Lestrade at length. "No means of finding him?"  
  


"You've a whole team of means, unless you're finally ready to admit their incompetence," replies Sherlock, and sweeps out of the room. John sets his jaw and follows.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
They're striding off across the street—Sherlock with a definitive purpose in his steps, his legs moving as if afraid to rebel, and John just doing his best to keep up—when John lets out a breath and says, "Wow." He doesn't mean it flatteringly.  
  


"You're angry," murmurs Sherlock.  
  


"No  _shit_ , Sherlock," says John, rather waspishly. "You couldn't take the time to send one little text, just to say 'Oh, right, John, I'm not dead'? That you hadn't gone off and done something stupid?"  
  


Sherlock glances at him, looking both bemused and amused at once. "Like what?"  
  


"You know what," says John, and rubs a hand over his face. "I was worried, okay?" He eyes Sherlock's hands at his sides, which seem to have frozen in the act of clawing the fabric of his coat. "And you're not giving me reasons to stop being worried."  
  


Sherlock looks blandly perturbed by this, but turns away. "There," he says, and points to a stretch of green between two restaurants on the other side of the road. "That's where he came from. If he carried grass all the way from across the road, he must have had some very heavy-duty boots indeed. From which we can infer what he was possibly doing."  
  


"And you lied to Lestrade," says John, resigned.  
  


"Of course, John," replies Sherlock. "I'm not letting him interfere with the investigation of my brother's death."  
  


John stops. He stares at Sherlock's back for a moment, before realizing that Sherlock's still walking and jolting back into a jog to follow him. "Your brother's—wait, what? Sherlock, what?"  
  


"I don't usually interfere in simple cases like this," Sherlock says. They slide into the narrow space between the two restaurants, skirting bins and one skeletal dog, pressed so close together that Sherlock's heavy coat slaps against John's legs. "I'm here because that woman was a government agent, according to files in Mycroft's office."  
  


John frowns. While it seems like a normal thing to do, at the same time it seems like something that Mycroft would never do—the risk of such permanent information falling into the wrong hands would be a mistake beneath him. "Mycroft kept files in his office?"  
  


"Not quite. He wouldn't allow such a breach in privacy, so he wrote them in a shorthand that not only eliminates a lot of unnecessary words, but makes it almost impossible for anyone else to follow the line of thought. Our mother taught it to us," Sherlock explains, tacking the end on almost as afterthought.  
  


"And what, you can read it?"  
  


"It took me about a decade and a half to learn how to follow his shorthand," says Sherlock dryly. "He never knew that I'd figured it out, so he kept using it. He very kindly outlined for me that he had been working on a project with Miss Yi about half a year ago, along with a eleven others. Thirteen in all."  
  


"So that woman…"  
  


"Is connected," replies Sherlock. "And if there's some sort of politics behind these related deaths, then…"  
  


"…It wasn't a suicide," says John.  
  


Sherlock grins, fiercely bright. His lips crack and bleed.

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
Still, John thinks, it's strange that Mycroft's death, if it was, indeed, a fake suicide, Sherlock wasn't able to see through it. He saw through Miss (Agent?) Yi's false suicide easily enough, even provided the proper observations for it. But in Mycroft's bedroom—where had his observations been?  
  


No, that wasn't right. Sherlock had observed. Sherlock had deduced. And:  
  


"One person of Mycroft's height and weight walked into the room, judging by the markings on the outside carpet, and stood in the middle of the room until an abrupt collapse. There's no indication that he moved thereafter."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
It turns out that the boots are for gardening.  
  


Behind the restaurants across from the block of flats is a public park, one half filled with yellowing grass and the other uprooted and filled with not-yet planted boxes of flowers and sod. A group of four struggle to move a tree into a freshly dug hole. Nearby, people lounge in a coffee shop, as if the street a block over isn't cordoned off and swarming with homicide investigation squads. "That makes things simple," says Sherlock quietly.  
  


John looks around, playing the eternal "catch up to Sherlock's ridiculous brain and long legs" game. They came here to see where the killer had come from, but if it's simple… "You mean he's here?"  
  


Sherlock points to one of the gardeners. "Luckily, our killer had no choice but to return here. He's participating in a park restoration project with a few friends, so presumably some time yesterday he excused himself for a break, walked through the alley, across the street, into Miss Yi's flat, killed her, and returned to his work. It makes everything clean and easy for us, though I don't doubt he would have gotten away with it had it been any other police investigation. The dishcloth is sticking out of his back pocket; likely, he's using it now to wipe off sweat." Sherlock pauses. "And maybe a half-hearted attempt at the handkerchief code."  
  


"You know about that?" says John, abruptly amused that a man who has never even watched Star Wars would know about a supposedly subtle signal between gay men. Sherlock gives him A Look, yet John can't help but feel the corners of his mouth turn up. "How on earth do you know about that?"  
  


"The question, I think," Sherlock drawls (actually drawls, the git), "is not how I know, but how do you?"  
  


John is halfway through some convoluted excuse about Harry when Sherlock walks straight up to the man and taps him on the shoulder. The man turns, but the person he sees isn't Sherlock: it's someone with his face, an uncertain smile, shuffling feet, a permanent questioning tilt in his neck, and wringing hands. The unhealthy pallor in his cheeks helps, likely. "Excuse me, but I saw you reading a particular book in the bookshop on the other street over there…"  
  


"Oh yeah?" says the man with the faintest American accent. He has a broad grin, boyish and handsome that goes well with his slight stubble. "Today?"  
  


Sherlock passes him a hopeful smile right back. "Yesterday, actually."  
  


"Dude, Jay, you were in a bookstore?" says a girl with bright (artificial) red hair. "I thought you had to meet Angie for lunch?"  
  


"Thought she might appreciate a book to go with her sandwich." Jay shrugs.  
  


"It's just, I noticed you because you were reading James Wright, and he's one of my favorite poets," Sherlock continues, bordering on gleefully. "'Saint Judas,' right?"  
  


Jay grins wider, but less handsomely. "Yeah—yeah, that's the one. I still got the book, if you wanna see." The words came out deflated, like a courtesy he didn't particularly want to follow.  
  


Sherlock smiles. "That would be lovely."  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
"The name's Sherlock Holmes," says Sherlock briskly, and with four words obliterates his earlier persona.  
  


"Holmes?" Jay echoes. The easy slump of his shoulders hardens to a strong, broad line, but he still tilts his head with good-natured cockiness. "Jackson Turner, but you can just call me Jay, because there's too many Jacks, and you already know all that, I suppose." He looks at John. "And you are?"  
  


"John Watson," says John, and holds out a hand for Jay to shake, which he does firmly. "Sherlock's colleague."  
  


Jay chuckles. "Colleague. Right."  
  


John clears his throat, unsure how to clear up the assumption when it's only implied. Sherlock, being Sherlock, opts to mow the moment over: "I trust you know why I'm here?"  
  


With a glance back towards his friends, who appear to argue over which colored flowers to plant off in the distance, Jay lowers his voice. "I did what I was ordered to do."  
  


"Quite," says Sherlock. His voice is the epitome of bland. John looks at him, but no, the person beside him still has Sherlock's face. Just another persona. "Did you question your orders?"  
  


"He doesn't like questions."  
  


"Yes, I know that too," says Sherlock, smiling tightly. "But he gave you a reason, didn't he?"  
  


Jay tilts his head in the other direction, now. The easy smile never disappears, only loses its honesty. "Miss Yi was a traitor to the British government. Apparently working for Japan; there was a whole story to go with it about how her great-grand father had been abducted by the Japanese during World War II and never managed to return to Korea. I was to take her out."  
  


"Your own teammate?"  
  


"Ex-teammate," says Jay. "Saint Judas is over."  
  


"Not," replies Sherlock, "quite yet."  
  


Jay's eyes narrow to slits. It ruins, frankly, the whole image he's been carefully keeping. "Who are you?"  
  


"Sherlock Holmes."  
  


"His brother, yeah," says Jay sourly, "but I've never heard of you in government. Thought you were a detective or some shit."  
  


"Well," says Sherlock, and when he smiles again, it hits John which persona he's wearing: every inch, perfectly recreated, of Mycroft's patronizing aura.  
  


Jay's lip curls into a snarl. "Saint Judas is over," he says. "He told me it was over."  
  


"I'm sure he did. But you know there are some projects that you can't just walk away from, don't you?"  
  


"I didn't even know what the mission's purpose was—I don't know anything," says Jay fiercely.  
  


Sherlock's eyebrows come together pityingly.  
  


"I don't!" he hisses.  
  


Sherlock sighs indulgently; John imagines his fingers flexing languorously on the handle of an umbrella. "I don't suppose it matters," he says dryly. Panic flashes in Jay's eyes. "One more, Jay. Have you been in contact with any of your other twelve—well. Miss Yi is… indisposed, and my brother was more the director than teammate, so. Any of your other ten associates?"  
  


"None besides Yi, and you know how that went," is the wary reply.  
  


Sherlock smiles, dripping magnanimosity. "You may be in the near future," he says, and all color drains from Jay's face.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
They're standing in the shade of a building, watching Jay wipe his face with Yi's dishcloth (unsanitary, says the doctor in John), when John takes a breath and begins, "Sherlock—"  
  


Sherlock interrupts, "You're wondering what—"  
  


"Yeah, I am, and I'm also wondering when you're intending to tell Lestrade you found Yi's killer," says John, "but first, when was the last time you slept?"  
  


Sherlock blinks, then stares at John. His lower lip stiffens. John wonders if it's going to start bleeding again. "Well," he says. "…Well. That's…" He frowns. "I don't sleep on cases, John."  
  


"The last time you slept longer than fifteen minutes was before Mycroft's funeral, Sherlock; don't use the case as an excuse." John's disapproval, he's sure, is oozing from his pores. "And the last time you ate?"  
  


"Not your business," says Sherlock brusquely.  
  


"It is completely my business," says John, but Sherlock's already turned away.  
  


For one moment, the one and only thing that John wants in the whole world is to see Sherlock, in their flat, being his usual arrogant self, playing the violin at stupid o'clock, arguing with John's Bond movies, making the kitchen smell like E. coli, arguing over which fridge shelves he was and was not allowed to put body parts on, taking normal cases and deducing every meal and marriage and personality flaw from people's fingernails. He's tired of Sherlock repeating "It wasn't a suicide" with a determination that can only be desperation, of broken windows and piles of cold cases, of texts Sherlock will never read and words he'll never speak. John wants danger, but not to Sherlock. No, Sherlock is the danger. And now—  
  


A gunshot cracks. John's head turns just in time to see blood splatter the air and Jay's head hit the ground. Beside him, the girl with the dyed red hair is screaming.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
John has to announce Jay dead at the scene. There's too much brain matter on the grass; it'd been a clean shot, one bullet straight through the dead center of his head. Sherlock sprints off to some building with all the frenzy of a force of nature, but comes back shorly: "The sniper left, and all I know is that he had a lopsided knee," he says with vicious sourness unwarranted, even from Sherlock, from a missed lead. The police cordon from the street over expands to engulf the park.  
  


Much to Sherlock's resentment, Lestrade ends up detaining them to take a brief statement: what they saw ("not much"), where they saw Jay ("in the park, from a distance"), why they were there ("just getting a cup of coffee, Detective Inspector"), any clues Sherlock picked up from the crime scene ("from the angle, bullet type and corresponding gun type, and force with which it entered, it came from that building about two hundred meters away, but I've already examined it and there's no one there"). After, they actually do have that cup from the coffee shop. John studies the lines in Sherlock's face and tries to remember if Sherlock looks older than he did twelve days ago. He looks back down at his coffee, but ends up seeing Sherlock's bony hand wrapped around his own mug, and a raw, shiny strip of newly scarred flesh on the palm of his hand.  
  


"Let's go," says Sherlock abruptly, and stands up, but John's hand seizes his sleeve and yanks him back Sherlock's expression is bordering on scandalized. "John," he says, "let's go."  
  


"No, questions first," says John. His grip on the sleeve tightens, but he can't manage to make Sherlock sit back down. "Where have you been these last four days?"  
  


"If you can't keep up, let _me_ go and I'll go alone."  
  


John feels his words like a slap, but he does not let go. "That's exactly why you need to answer my question, Sherlock."  
  


Sherlock makes a hissing noise. "Investigating, obviously."  
  


"Investigating where?"  
  


"Around."  
  


John gives Sherlock a long-suffering stare. Sherlock looks down at him like John is something he'd found on the underside of his shoe.  
  


"I'll tell you on the way; let's go."  
  


"No, what the hell was that back there?"  
  


"Specifics, John."  
  


"You questioning Jay. What was that?"  
  


Sherlock tries to pulls his sleeve free, but John holds fast.  _If looks could kill_ , John thinks in the back of his head. "I said 'Saint Judas.' He assumed I knew everything. I acted like I knew everything. He spoke as if I knew everything—that is, freely." There's no smugness in his voice; the words are colourless and clipped. "Applied with one of Mycroft's favorite tricks—saying nonsense with confidence, which leads people to believe that you know something they don't when really you know nothing at all. Works especially well with people deeply entrenched in the government, who are always aware that the government stretches further than they can see but are always unsure of how far. Pretend you're beyond their horizon and suddenly you become infinitely larger in their imagination."  
  


"How'd you know to say 'Saint Judas'? Because of the poem?"  
  


"Yes and no. That was Mycroft's favorite poem since we were children—I've still no idea why—so I thought it was a sentimental move when I found it on his body. When I talked to Jay, it was half a hunch, because of course Mycroft would name an undercover operation of twelve agents, thirteen including himself, 'Saint Judas'. Twelve disciples, thirteen plus Judas."  
  


"So," says John, "that was just… what? High-quality bullshitting?"  
  


Sherlock examines him for a moment, then lets the corners of his eyes relax. "You've really such a way with words, John."  
  


John smiles, but it's an absent reflex and fades fast. "I would say that was fantastic," says John, "but for a moment I could have sworn you were channeling your brother."  
  


Sherlock's expression shifts to indifference. In the distance, John thinks he can see the doors shutting in Sherlock's eyes. The shadows entrenched in his cheeks deepen. "Mm," is all he says, and then: "Ready  _now_?"  
  


"To what?"  
  


"To track down that sniper, obviously."  
  


"You mean to prove Anderson wrong on not just one, but now three cases."  
  


Sherlock smirks. His eyes don't move. "Of course."

  
"And what would you do if I just… didn't let go?"

 

The smirk falls. "I'd rather you not ask that."

 

John downs the rest of his coffee, not bothering to wince when it scalds his throat, and finally lets go of Sherlock's sleeve. "Lead the way," he replies, because he doesn't have a choice. Sherlock has never been somebody who could be stopped, but then again, John's never wanted him to stop before.

 

* * *

  
  
  
"About six months ago, Mycroft gathered twelve agents together for an operation that he left unnamed in his files, but we now know was called 'Saint Judas,'" explains Sherlock. The beat of their footsteps clanging on the fire escape stairs mesh in syncopation, and John strains to hear him. "Ok Yong Yi was one; Jackson Turner was another. It was disbanded one month into their mission, and the agents split up and continued with individual work for different sections of the government."  
  


"You got all that from Mycroft's files?" John asks, struggling both not to pant and keep up with Sherlock's pace (taking the stairs two a time with those blasted legs of his).  
  


"Just one, actually." Sherlock reaches into one of his bottomless coat pockets and pulls out a small strip of paper. "He has a lot of files, all written in shorthand and usually recorded without names, dates, or the purposes of the missions. He keeps the specifics in his own memory, apparently."  
  


"So how'd you—" The sentence breaks as John tries to get his breath, but he continues on as steadily as he can: "How'd you know this particular one was important?"  
  


Sherlock stops and John nearly walks right into his lower back. They're maybe eight stories up now, standing outside the a flat window maybe twelve streets down from Yi's flat. John can see open wires snaking out of a mangled laptop and two wrapped condoms through the window, but the glass is too grimy to see much more. "An agent just died. Not special in itself, but she was involved in one of the few operations for which he wrote the names down," replies Sherlock, before he drops to his knees and pulls out a set of lock picks. "That could mean anything, not necessarily that was related to his death, but I can take as many shots in the dark as I want."  
  
 _He has time_ , John thinks. Of course he does, John supposes—Mycroft's certainly not going anywhere. So why's he in such a rush? "And the last four days…?" John asks.  
  
"I've been investigating the operations he left written details for, sometimes multiple simultaneously."  
  
"How many is a 'few operations'?"  
  
"About sixty-two."  
  
Before John can respond, Sherlock shoves the window open and immediately slides in, and John winces at the sound of old wood splintering as Sherlock's forehead collides with the top edge of the window. Sherlock's lips are a thin line as he holds the window open for John, who follows much less gracefully, but his forehead misses the edge by entire inches. Sherlock gives him a disgruntled look.  
  
"So," says John, and looks around. The flat they're standing in now looks like a tech junkie's college dorm: there's beer cans rolling on the stained carpet, every electric appliance in the room has its innards displayed in technological vivisections, the sofa is shapeless and facing a telly with a cracked screen, and there's not more than a square yard of open space before there's another table crammed with wrenches and wires. It smells faintly like pot, and the dim, yellowing light makes John squint. It's lopsided and disorganized chaos, leaking out to the walls like goop, and John feels a deep aversion to it. At least Sherlock was organized in his madness. "Exactly where have we broken into now?"  
  


Sherlock throws him the paper from earlier, like he hasn't the time to hand it to him properly, and all but flies off to the opposite side of the room. John unfolds it and sees the words _Mycroft Holmes_  at the very top, followed by  _Agueda Cortez_ ,  _Eydis Arnalds_ , and ten other names, making thirteen in total.  _Ok Yong Yi_  is eighth;  _Jackson Turner_  is tenth. "They're all different ethnicities," says John idly, turning the paper over to see a corresponding list of addresses. "These the names relating to the operation Agent Yi was in?"  
  


In a rather dramatic whirl of his coat, Sherlock swoops down on one of the larger masses of plastic and circuit boards, moving from each bizarre sculpture to the next in a frantic pace that leaves John wondering if he's even taking the time to observe everything as thoroughly as he usually does. "Dust," he declares. "Everywhere. But the rent's still obviously been paid."  
  


"Paid in advance?"  
  


"Doubt it. More like somebody didn't want anybody to notice Zheng's disappearance."  
  


"Zheng is… the person who lived here?"  
  


Sherlock takes the effort to make an irritated noise, but doesn't turn from his examination of the rusted refrigerator. John looks down to see Zheng Ma as fourth on the list. "And that means what, exactly?"  
  


The refrigerator opens and the smell of sour dairy hits John's nose like a wave. "About two months, maybe seven weeks," murmurs Sherlock, ignoring John completely. "—Oh; dairy, but the name's Chinese and he might be lactose intolerant. Probably the milk's for the boyfriend, then."  
  


"So if he hasn't been back for a month," says John slowly, "but somebody took care of his rent to make sure nobody noticed he was gone, then that's a purposeful disappearance, then. And from the… rather unfortunate trend, what with three others on this list dead…" John looks up just in time to see Sherlock looking at him with startled glee. "…Purposeful removal, then?"  
  


"Exactly!" There's glee shining through the new wrinkles in Sherlock's face; as happy as he is, he still looks old and tired. "Maybe one of these days you'll actually start thinking, John."  
  


John sighs. "So what now? We check to see who on the list is still alive?"  
  


"Just about. And hold this for me, it's important." Sherlock plows right over a chair cradling a franken-fused XBox-Wii combo and slaps a dirty dishcloth into John's hand. John's nose wrinkles; he resists the urge to drop it and wipe his hand on his pants.  
  


"The hell is this?"  
  


"Important," Sherlock repeated.  
  


"Why is it important?"  
  


"Don't you know you can tell if someone's a liar from their dishcloth?"  
  


"You don't get points for deducing that if you believe everyone's a liar."  
  


Sherlock's nose wrinkles. "…I can't believe you got the punchline three months later. Oh," he adds, "and I need you to get the other dishcloth from Yi's apartment; she has identical pairs, thank her OCD for that, and rather than lift the one Turner had you might as well get the clean one." Sherlock opens the window again and shimmies outside, wincing just a little. John's eyes narrow.  
  


"Are you all right, Sherlock?" asks John suddenly.  
  


"Wasting my time," is Sherlock's response.  
  


"That's not a waste of time, that's—no, don't close the window on me. Where are you going?" demands John.  
  


Sherlock looks at John with both pity and impatience. "There's nine people left on that list, aren't there?" He rolls his eyes, mutters, "Waste," and lets the window fall shut.  
  


"Wait!" John wrenches the window back open, but Sherlock's already sprinting down the stairs. John has always liked trying to keep up with Sherlock's breakneck speed—trying to slow down probably would have brought back John's limp—but now, just watching him scares John half to death that he'll miss one and tumble all the way down to the pavement, and oh, that's not an image John wants to construct. "Sherlock!" he calls, unsure if he can even hear him. "Slow down! Just—Christ, never thought I'd say that… There was a difference between risking your life and running it into the ground, you know!" he shouts, but now he's sure he's too late. The whistling of the wind drowns him out, high above London's streets.

 

* * *

  
  
  
"And why do you want her dishcloth?" asks Lestrade.  
  


"That, that's because," he begins, "Jackson Turner had, er, the other dishcloth, and Sherlock wants to see if there's, uh, a connection."  _Wait, of course there's a connection, Jackson killed her and wiped his footprints with it_ , John thinks, and mentally kicks himself.  
  


Lestrade is looking at him with narrowed eyes, but less out of suspicion and more out of disbelief. "I actually, truly don't know if I've ever seen a liar as absolute rubbish as you," he says.  
  


John groans.  
  


"And you know that drawing my attention to the dishcloth means I'm just going to bag it as evidence, right?"  
  


"Yeah," says John, and clears his throat. Mentally kicks himself again for being too morally-straight to just pocket the thing and run like Sherlock does. "Yeah, I know."  
  


Lestrade looks over his shoulder at two other officers examining Yi's twin shoe racks, then back at John. "He doesn't usually concern himself with simple cases like this, you know?"  
  


"So he told me."  
  


Lestrade studies the dishcloth, then turns around and says, "Go on, then. I'm not looking."  
  


"What? Really?" But John's already wrapping it up and putting it in his jacket pocket.  
  


Lestrade shrugs, glancing over his shoulder. "We have Turner's, anyway. And if Sherlock's got his sights set on something like this, I might not have gotten the message, but I know it's there."

 

 

* * *

  
  
  
          _I got the dishcloth. Where am I going now?_  
  
The thing about texts is that now John's never sure if Sherlock's even received them. Two weeks ago, he would know that Sherlock would have his message within the minute. A day ago, his texts had just been little scraps of data John had shoved off in Sherlock's general direction, never to be seen again—making all the sound in the world, but still not heard. It'd been, frankly, terrifying, like they'd both been swallowed up in a vacuum.  
  
He doesn't move until Sherlock's reply text downloads to his phone:  
  
        _Baker Street. SH_  
  
John pockets his phone and hails a cab, just a little more at ease.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
"Sherlock, are you really trying to say that beyond their obvious association with this Saint Judas thing, they were connected by their  _dishcloths_? Because that's kind of—"  
  


John stops. Looks around. Sees the sofa, the Union Jack pillow, the table, John's computer, Sherlock's computer, the pair of chairs, the mantel, the skull. Walks to the kitchen and studies the petri dishes of pineapple slices he'd had set up under the microscope.  
  


"Sherlock?"  
  


Walks out of the kitchen and eases the bathroom door open. Looks over the twin toothbrushes, razors, deodorants, the single tube of toothpaste. Checks the bathtub for good measure.  
  


"…Sherlock?"  
  


Stares the empty windows, covered in plastic like gauze on an open wound. Pokes his head into Sherlock's bedroom, and narrows his eyes at the empty bed.  
  


"Mrs Hudson!" he calls, and makes for the stairs.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
        _Where are you?_  
  


_I've told Mrs Hudson you're missing. I actually didn't mean to, because I knew she'd worry._  
  


_Sherlock, there'd better be a good reason for this._  
  


_Are you going to make me check every address on this list to see which agent you're badgeri_  
  


But John doesn't send the last text; presses delete until the cursor's wiped all the letters clean. He checks the clock: two in the afternoon. Puts his phone in his pocket, then goes up stairs to his room and digs his gun out from under the false bottom of his drawer.  
  


Decides that if it's Sherlock being a text-ignoring prat again, at least John can hit him with it. That is, hopefully, all that he'll be using it for.  
  


He looks at the list, and decides to start with Agueda Cortez.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
Cortez's door is unlocked, which saves John the trouble of deciding if he's going to kick it down or not. The flat is also empty. He looks for signs that Sherlock's been here, but doesn't find any, and isn't sure what he's looking for anyway. Nothing looks out of place, anyway, not that there's much more in the flat than the wide expanses of pale wood; the flat's sparser than John's bedroom, and that says something. He's about to leave when he spies a dishcloth hanging on a cabinet knob.  
  
"Important," he says to himself. "Important, important. Um." He turns Cortez's dishcloth over in his hands and picks at the little tag in the corner. "Made in Spain. Okay. Hm. It… looks like high quality? The hell does a high-quality dishcloth look like," he mutters. "That's… probably a wine stain. Or grape juice. With alcohol. Isn't that what wine is? Or do you, I dunno, bleed alcohol out of the grapes from birth? How do you make wine? How do I not know how you make wine? Who lives on this earth for almost forty years and goes on as many dates as I do and not knows how you make wine? Wait, okay, I know that over there is a coffee stain. It doesn't… look fresh? From what I've seen on clothes… Yeah, okay, but my clothes aren't high quality anything, and god forbid Sherlock ever spill coffee; so do high quality… things stain different, or…?"  
  
John stuffs it in his pocket and decides to stick with being a doctor.

 

* * *

  
  
  
For the rest of that day and well into the night, John visits flats. They are, invariably, unlocked and unoccupied. They do not, invariably, show any sign that Sherlock had been there. They have, invariably, a single dishcloth. John takes them and puts them in a laundry bag he'd picked up at Eydis Arnalds's flat.  
  
John feels really, really dumb, but this is all he knows what to do.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
He's in a cab going towards Baker Street when he looks down at the dishcloths he's assembled and something that has nothing to do with wine or coffee stains begins to slide into place.  
  


Zheng's dishcloth is ruined with gray matter beyond repair, but he can faintly make out a little tag that said Made in China. (What isn't made in China nowadays?) Cortez's says Made in Spain. He turns Jay's over, and reads Made in the US. Eydis Arnalds's says Made in Iceland, which John mentally files away because he's never actually seen anything made in Iceland. It corresponds with their nationalities, John realizes, after a quick Google search to confirm that Eydis Arnalds is actually a real name. So, then. It's not a coincidence. Can't be.  
  


But why would agents have dishcloths that correspond with their nationality? It can't possibly be a result of a habit or action that any person would do (John concludes tentatively, keenly aware of his failings in the detective department). Then the natural extension is that it was a conscious move. On whose part?  
  


He turns Ok Yong Yi's dishcloth over to see Made in Japan. He frowns; had Sherlock been wrong when he'd said that she'd been Korean? Probably not. John must be even more rubbish a detective than a liar.  
  


He mulls this over for a moment, then pulls out his phone.  
  


          _Might have found something with their dishcloths. Heading over to Mycroft's house._  
  


Not because he'll respond, or even read it, but because he _might_ , John thinks to himself with a sigh, and tells the cabbie the new destination.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
It's at least four in the morning by the time John pays with Sherlock's debit card again (how much is even in there, anyway?) and begins the walk up the driveway. John abruptly hates how sedentary it is, heavy and looming over the expanse it watches. Once, John had thought that Mycroft would never leave Sherlock's life; now, if its owner is gone, the house should be, too. No unclean breaks.  
  


It's useless to resent a house, really. John does it anyway.  
  


The house was, apparently never locked again after the investigation, which makes John wonder how long it'll be before somebody decides to come along and strip it. It takes about five minutes for John to realize that anybody who wanted to strip the place would need a team at least as large as the Yard's, because John finds himself in need of an actual map. The hallways all look the same (posh and deeply red), everything seems to wrap back to the entrance hall, and all the sitting rooms (plural) give no clues as to which way John is going because they're all frustrating variations of the same theme. Needless to say, nobody has "You are Here --> X" maps in their own house, unfortunately. Lestrade had said that the only person who frequented the house besides Mycroft was the maid—had she memorized the place?  
  


John ends up backtracking out of the house, locating what he thinks is the kitchen through a window, and going back in and heading in that direction. The kitchen, big enough for at least two or three cooks, is much like Mycroft's sitting rooms: like a museum, or overly grand show of what a home should be. And distinctly unused.  
  


So unused that apparently, Mycroft did not own a dishcloth.  
  


John opens every cupboard he can find, which leads to eerily blank space. The pantry is filled with cans, all coated with dust. The cabinet under the sink is devoid of the usual dishwashing soap and various bins, displaying only the sink's open plumbing. The knife block is full, but the knives have been untouched for so long that John has to steady the block just to wrench one free. The chandelier above shines warm, empty light on the tiles and counters, all cold to the touch.  
  


"So the other twelve agents had dishcloths, but not Mycroft," John says aloud. He frowns at the bag of dishcloths on the floor, and the strip of paper with the thirteen names in his hand. "So why…?"  
  


Nobody answers. John runs a hand through his hair and looks around the empty kitchen, but Sherlock's very distinctly not there to explain what the bloody hell is up with these dishcloths. He opens his phone—no new texts, of course. Pursing his lips, he Googles the poem 'Saint Judas.'  
  


He sits on the tile and reads the two stanzas over and over—"banished from heaven," "the kiss that ate my flesh," "my name, my number, how my day began"—but John has never been a literature person, and all he understands is that there's a man being beaten, and the narrator saves him. And, of course, the first line: "'When I went out to kill myself,'" John says aloud, as if it will illuminate their meaning. It doesn't.  
  


This, John knows, is this difference between risking your life and running it into the ground: rather than feeling alive, John just feels tiredness creaking in his joints, even as his muscles strain to bring Sherlock back home. And if running himself to the ground is what it takes, then, John realizes, he actually really will do it.  
  


"'When I went out to kill myself,'" John mumbles again.  
  


"'Saint Judas' is not a poem about suicide," says a familiar voice. "Or rather, it is, but it's of no matter."  
  


Footsteps shift in the hallway; a whisper, instead of the clinical click of heels on tile. John's fingers clench around his phone. "Judas, after trading Jesus for thirty silver coins, hangs himself in despair of his own actions. It's a useless gesture: suicide is, according to Bible, is a one-way ticket to Hell, but it's redundant in the aftermath of betraying God's own son," continues the voice, lazily measuring each syllable for its weight and worth. "You see, saints, murderers, businessmen, singers, politicians, social workers, thieves, doctors, detectives, all are judged for their actions, sins and goodness alike tallied by Saint Peter like a checkbook; but Judas—Judas alone—was, from the moment he kissed Jesus's cheek, a nonentity. Everything he did, everything he would do, everything he could do, was rendered void. He was already damned.  
  


"But the poem describes a scene: Judas, carrying his rope on his way to hang himself, sees a man being beaten by a gang. He doesn't stop to think; doesn't consider his own impotency. He drops his rope and throws himself on top of the poor man, shielding him from blows with his own body. It is only then"—and the voice puts that belittling stress on the words only then—"that he remembers what he has done, and who he now is. The futility of his existence. And, regardless, he still holds on.  
  


"It is the ultimate altruism, you see," says the voice, at at last the umbrella swings into view, followed by Mycroft's humorless face. "Goodness for nothing but its own sake."  
  



End file.
